


Authorial Intent

by Satine86



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Camp, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Romancing the Stone AU, Swearing, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/pseuds/Satine86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Varric receives a mysterious map and a frantic phone call from Hawke, it's off to Antiva to find the only person who can help him. A friend of Hawke's named Pentaghast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miraphora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/gifts).



> A shamelessly self-indulgent Romancing the Stone AU based off a tumblr post from lustfulpasiphae/miraphora.

There was nothing quite as satisfying as finishing your manuscript. The sense of accomplishment, the sense of pride. Not the mention the rush of overwhelming relief. Especially when you were set to meet with your agent… Varric glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes ago. 

Shit. 

Best selling author or not, she was probably going to punch him. At least the ending of the story was solid, one of his best in his opinion. That would make the impending tongue lashing from said agent worth it. Kind of? He hoped. 

Quickly organizing the last few pages of the manuscript, he added them to the others and shoved the whole bundle into his worn leather briefcase, then scrambled for a jacket. 

The phone hadn't rang once all afternoon, and he couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not. Until he remembered he'd unplugged it so he could write. He was probably going to die when he finally showed up to meet his agent. At least he'd been able to finish a good novel. 

Finally shrugging into his old blazer, Varric grabbed the briefcase and stopped in front of his door, hand resting on the knob. His palms were starting to sweat, his stomach uneasy. 

“Come on, Tethras. You've gone to the restaurant a hundred times. It's not far. You're fine.” He sucked in a deep breath, did his best to shove aside the quiet feeling of discomfort, and yanked open the door. 

A startled messenger stood on the other side, hand raised and poised to knock on the door. 

“Uh… Varric Tethras?”

“Yeah?” 

“I've a delivery you need to sign for, sir.” 

Varric nodded, tried not to tap his foot impatiently while the kid looked for his pen. When it seemed he'd lost the damned thing, Varric took the clipboard and used the pencil he kept shoved behind his ear to scrawl his name.

“Good enough?” he asked, handing the clipboard back.

“Sure thing!” The kid produced a large manilla envelope from his bag and left with a smile. 

Shaking his head, Varric glanced down at the sender's name: M. Hawke. By way of Antiva from the look of the postage.

“What the fuck, Hawke?” He was about ready to tear it open when he remembered he absolutely needed to leave because he couldn't avoid to be even later. Shoving the envelope in with the manuscript, he checked to make sure he had his keys, locked the door, and left. 

He only hoped he wasn't walking to his execution. 

 

* * * 

Luckily, death hadn't been imminent. Just a withering glare and a request to never unplug his phone again. Though, considering she hadn't read the manuscript yet, the threat of death could still be on the table. Just because he liked it, didn't mean she would. 

The waiter had left with their drink order when Leliana placed her elbows on the table, her chin balanced atop her laced fingers.

“Varric,” she started. 

“No.” 

“You don't even know what I was going to say.” She gave him a wide-eyed innocent look. A clever ruse, if ever he saw one. It still didn't fool him. 

“It was either going to be about doing a book tour, or about getting out to meet 'flesh and blood people'. The answer to both is: no.” 

Leliana rolled her eyes. “A book tour is inevitable, Varric. The publishing house wants it to happen, so it will have to eventually. Especially if this is as good as you claim. They'll want you out there.” 

Varric made a face, just as the waiter returned with their drinks. Of which he took a large sip. 

“As for the getting out to meet people, that is only ever me voicing a suggestion.” She paused, tilted her head. “I worry about you, Varric. You can't stay locked up in your apartment forever.” 

“I'm fine, Lel. Honestly.” He spread his hands and grinned. “I mean I'm practically the poster child for writers everywhere: an agoraphobic recluse.” 

“You are not agoraphobic! Even if you were, you wouldn't go to a doctor to sort it out. Nor are you a recluse, since you're sitting here with me. You just need to…” she took a breath, swirled her hand while she searched for the words. “Break out of your comfort zone.”

“I'm good where I am, thanks though.” 

She wrinkled her nose. “Why is it always the same conversation with you?” 

“I don't know, you're the one who keeps bringing it up.”

“Varric, you are a good a person. And you should be happy. You can't go around all the time thinking some fierce, unstoppable woman is going to magically appear.” She rested her hand atop the manuscript.

He snorted at that, crossed his arms. “Are you saying I'm in love with my book character?” 

“I'm saying you're in love with the idea. But eventually you need to live in the real world, Varric. Like the rest of us.” 

“We'll see,” he mumbled. 

 

* * * 

 

Despite a good meal and much lighter conversation, Varric wasn't able to shake Leliana's words. Maybe she was right. Maybe he needed to live in the real world, stop tinkering around with characters and figure out what to do with himself. 

That seemed a thought better suited for when he was much drunker. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, he yanked his keyring from his pocket and was just about to fit the key in the lock when he noticed the door was ajar. Frowning, he shoved at it, watching in increasing horror as the door swung open soundlessly to reveal his ransacked apartment. 

Chairs and end-tables overturned, his desk torn apart with papers strewn about. Stepping inside, broken glass crunched beneath his shoes.

Varric swallowed, wondered if anyone was still there. He hadn't heard a sound since he entered. Sighing, he dropped his briefcase on the overturned couch and went to the phone. He picked it up, ready to dial the police, but a strange sound caught his attention.

“Hello?”

A sigh of relief. “Varric, thank the Maker you picked up!” 

“Hawke?” Her voice was a little tinny, faraway sounding. She also sounded anxious. That wasn't a good sign. 

“Did you get the letter I sent you?” 

He fumbled with the latch on his briefcase, pulled out the envelope and tore into it. “Yeah. What is it?”

“It's a map. A very, very important map. I sent it to you for safekeeping, but I need it back.” 

“All right,” he said slowly. Pulling the map free, he realized it was old. Very old. And… “Is this Dwarven? Andraste's tits, Hawke, is this a map to a Thaig?” 

“Yes, but that doesn't matter.” There was a muffled voice in the background, the sound of chains clanking. “Look, Varric, there are some people here who really want that map. If they don't get it, they're going to kill me. I need you to bring it to me in Antiva. To Seleny.”

“Fuck, Hawke.” Varric scrubbed a hand down the side of his face. The muffled voice sounded again.

“They want you to keep in touch for further instructions, so copy this number down.” He scrambled for a pen while she rattled off the Antivan number. “And when you get out of the city” she added quickly, “stop at the Skyhold Tavern, ask for Pentaghast.”

Then the line went dead.

Varric stared at the receiver, as if Hawke would suddenly start speaking again, telling him it was all a joke. Funny how Leliana told him to live in the real world, and yet suddenly his life was like a crime novel. He hit the plunger on the phone, got the dial tone and hit 0.

“Yeah, Operator? Can you connect with Antiva Airlines, please?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get this now because CASSANDRA. :D

Antiva City was humid, disgustingly so, Varric mused as he walked out of the airport. He'd checked in with Hawke's captors, let them know he was on his way. Of course the only way to get to Seleny was via bus, no way to fly in. He could go by riverboat, but even the mere thought of it made him queasy. 

Well, queasier than he already was. He'd had to pop a Quaalude just to get on the fucking plane, now he was expected to go traipsing across Antiva to keep his friend from getting killed. Maker, it had to be a joke. 

Though before any of that, he needed to get on a bus find the Skyhold Tavern and this Pentaghast person. Considering it was Hawke, knowing the circles she ran in and how dire the situation was, it was likely the biggest, burliest goon she knew. Varric imagined she must know quite a few. 

After a few setbacks, and getting more than a little lost. Twice. And nearly having an anxiety attack both times. Varric finally found the right bus to take him where he needed to go. 

 

* * * 

 

The town he stopped in was obviously an over exaggerated rest stop. The last place to get out and stretch your legs for several miles, it consisted mainly of a convenience store and gas station, a dodgy looking restaurant, post office, and the tavern. 

The only word he could think to describe the establishment was 'seedy'. 

Exactly the type of place Hawke would frequent. Treasure hunting usually required some more nefarious contacts, and if you wanted to stay in their good graces you bought them drinks. Lots of them. In bars that served liquor rank enough to put some hair on your chest. 

The inside was just as dingy and divey as the outside had been. It was quiet, obviously, only a few regulars lining up at the bar in the middle of the day. Well, and a woman tucked in a corner at the end of the bar. She should have been easy to miss, hidden by shadows, except everything about her commanded your attention. 

Varric couldn't help but stare a bit as he walked up to the counter. Long legs encased in white linen pants were propped up on the table, one crossed over the other. The sleeves of her blue button-up were rolled, one arm flung over the back of her chair while she sipped what he assumed to be coffee or tea from a chipped cup. Most of her face was hidden by a beat-up white fedora, but when she shifted in her seat a bit, her caught sight of a long scar running down one cheek. 

Nothing about her said she should be hanging around a shit-hole like this one. That put Varric on edge, he'd written enough espionage serials to be wary of someone who stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Especially when he was in the middle of a hostage deal. 

He was still staring at her when he walked into one of the stools lining the bar.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asked. 

“I.. uh. Yeah.” Varric shook himself, focused on the man in front of him. “I was told to ask for Pentaghast?” 

Behind him, the door swung open and a group of dwarves came sauntering in. That was apparently a strange occurrence, because the men at the bar all tensed, the bartender included. The group took a seat at a table in the middle of the room. They were loud and likely not local. 

The bartender turned his gaze back on Varric, eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?” 

Varric frowned. “My friend.” 

“Who's your friend?” 

“Marian Hawke.”

He had tried to keep his voice quiet, the business private. But the group of dwarves still heard, and the moment Varric had said Hawke's name, he knew he had made a huge mistake. 

Chairs scrapped against the floorboards, crashing to the ground, tables were upended as the group behind him drew weapons and started to open fire. Varric hardly had time to register he was in the middle of a fucking shoot out, when something heavy thumped against his back. He went tumbling to the ground, the air whooshing out of him as the gang shot up the bar. 

“Move!” an accented voice hissed in his ear. Not Antivan. Nevarran? Varric cracked open one eye, craned his neck to find the woman from the corner glaring down at him. 

“Behind the bar!” she hissed when he didn't follow her first order. They skirted behind the bar, and she kept shoving him along toward a door at the opposite end. 

Varric tried his best to avoid broken glass and splintered wood, but stopped short when he came even with the bartender. The man's blood was pooling on the floorboards, his lifeless open wide in shock.

“He's dead,” Varric whispered. 

“Yes,” she growled. “That usually happens when the Carta decides to open fire. You will be dead too, if you do not _move_.” 

She gave him another violent shove toward the door just as the shooting stopped. The woman swore violently in Nevarran, motioned for him to stay down. She moved quickly to the middle of the bar, reaching out to grab something wedged between the cooler and a rack of glasses. A shotgun. 

Suddenly Varric felt very sick.

His ears were still ringing after all the gunfire and shouting, but she listened carefully, seemingly unfazed by it all. She motioned for Varric to keep moving toward the door. He did, his satchel with the map clutched in a death grip. 

He was vaguely aware of feet crunching broken glass, a gruff voice calling out with a warning.

“If you come out now, we won't kill ya. Just hand over the map. That's all we want.” The voice was drawing closer, and Varric hurried toward the door. 

“Come on,” the thug said, trying for a placating tone. He failed spectacularly. “You're a dwarf, we're dwarves. We ain't gonna hurt one of our own.”

“Bullshit!” the woman swore before popping out from her cover, bringing the shotgun up in the same motion and firing. 

There was a grunt, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor and then more gunfire. She dove for cover again, just as Varric made it to the door. He watched her yank a bag from the end of the bar, near her table, and then she was pushing through the door. 

Once they were in the relative safety of the stockroom, she pulled a storage shelf down to hinder any carta members trying to follow them. She turned and pointed to the far end of the room.

“Out the back!” she hissed. 

Varric didn't need to be told twice, he raced outside and found himself in an alley. He glanced left and right, both seemed viable options. 

“Left!” she cried, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and hauling him along. She was surprisingly strong. 

They raced down the alley, continued across the street and into the brush. Running turned into a chore as they had to scramble over fallen trees, their feet getting caught up in vines and tall grass. Varric could hardly keep up with her, but the threat of being shot to death spurred him on. They kept moving until his legs felt like they were going to fall off, and sweat was dripping down his face. Maker, he hated Antiva. 

Finally stopping, Varric collapsed against a tree trunk and tried to catch his breath. He had no clue where they were, how far they were from the bus stop or the carta members. Nor did he know who the hell he was with. But he was alive, at least for the moment. So that had to count for something. 

His new 'friend' was bent over, hands braced on her thighs while she took several slow breaths. “That was extremely stupid, Varric,” she panted. “Spouting off Hawke's name like that.” 

“Well, excuse me. I didn't know the fucking carta was going to shoo—wait, how do you know who I am? Or Hawke for that matter?” He gave the Nevarran a wary look, started to edge away from her. His gut reaction had been right. She didn't belong in that dive because she'd been sent after him. Maybe the people who had Hawke thought to just take the map without a trade. 

But then what did the carta have to do with it?

The woman was glaring at him again, lip curled in annoyance. “I'm Pentaghast, you idiot.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Varric has a panic attack and channels his inner Bilbo Baggins.

There was no way in hell she was Pentaghast. Unable to help himself, Varric swept his gaze over her. Certainly not when she looked the way she did. Of course she had saved his ass, and seemed more than a little familiar with that shotgun. He narrowed his eyes. 

“How do I know you're telling the truth?” 

She balled her fists on her hips, and stared at a point above his head. Taking in a deep breath as if to calm herself, she met his gaze steadily. 

“In your crime serial, your main character goes to an underground gambling hall. The crime lord has a ridiculous pet pig, with an even more ridiculous name that you never mention. The pig is real, and it was named 'Hamlet'. I know this, because while you heard that story from Hawke, I was actually _with_ her.” 

Varric nodded, there was no way for her to know those details, know that he'd gotten the tale from Hawke in the first place. No way unless she was telling the truth. Something about her made him believe she was. 

“Okay, so you're Pentaghast. You know how to handle yourself, obviously, so I get why Hawke said I should find you. So maybe you can tell me what the fuck is going on?” 

She let out a sigh, ran a hand though her short-cropped hair. “Truthfully, I'm not entirely certain. Hawke contacted me a couple weeks ago, she said she had uncovered a map and the Carta wanted it. That they had been getting increasingly more aggressive about trying to obtain it.”

“So why did she send it to me? This shit isn't exactly in my skill set.” 

“You were far away, and she trusts you. When she mailed it off, she said she was going to lay low, try to shake them off. We were supposed to meet up at the tavern today… I was waiting for her. When I saw you come in, I knew something horrible must have happened.” 

“Someone's kidnapped her. If I don't get them the map as soon as possible, they say they're going to kill her.” 

Pentaghast swore again in Nevarran, huffed out a breath, and looked like she was trying very hard not to punch something. Likely him. 

“This is… not good,” she said at length. “I don't suppose you know who has her, do you?” 

Varric looked at her blandly. “We're not exactly on first name basis yet. Maybe when I go boating with them later.” 

“Ugh,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. 

“Look, just point me in the direction of town. I'll catch the next bus to Seleny and give them the map. They can deal with the Carta.” Varric turned around and started back the way they'd came, or at least he thought it was. The trees and brush all the looked the same in every direction. 

“You can't go back there, you fool!” She caught him by his shirt collar and yanked. Hard. Causing him to stumble backward, arms windmilling a bit.

“What do you mean?” he asked, straightening his shirt and glaring up at her. 

“Because the Carta will be waiting for you. Unless you have a strong desire to be shot full of holes?” She crossed her arms, pursed her lips. “They will likely have people watching the roads for miles, you won't be able to travel that way.” 

“Then how else am I going to get to Seleny?” 

“We'll go by foot. At least for a while.”

“You're coming with me then?” Varric frowned. 

“Of course I am.” She looked at him like he'd sprouted a third eyeball. “Hawke sent you to me, and I wish to help her as much as you do. So we will go together.”

“Besides,” she added with a slight sneer. “I obviously can't count on you to _not_ get yourself killed before you have even delivered the map.”

“Great.” Varric rolled his eyes, adjusted the strap on his satchel. “As if this day couldn't get any better.” 

That was the moment there was a loud clap of thunder and the sky opened up a deluge of rain, soaking them through in seconds. 

“I stand corrected,” Varric muttered. 

 

* * * 

 

Trudging through the wilds of Antiva, soaking wet, was not good for Varric's constitution. In fact, the further they went the more lost he felt, and the more lost he felt the more anxious he got. It was stupid, he thought, that he managed to make it out of a gunfight without a second thought and yet now he felt like he was suffocating. 

At the time the adrenaline had been helpful, pushing him forward and allowing him to keep up with Pentaghast, but now it was a hinderence. He could feel the needling tendrils of panic inching up the back of his neck, could feel his heart thrumming heavily in his chest, making it tight. 

What if it wasn't anxiety though? What if the fear and fright were what did him in? He wasn't a young man, a heart attack was hardly outside the realm of possibility. What if it just gave out, and he died alone in the wilds of Antiva without rescuing Hawke? 

That thought made it difficult to breathe, made it difficult to do anything really. So Varric stopped, plopped down on a broken stump, and tried to suck in air. Only it was humid and thick, and each breath was entirely unsatisfying. 

He should never have come, he should have stayed at home. Where it was safe and dry. Where there wasn’t the immediate threat of death and dismemberment. What he should have done was send the map into the police, they would have helped Hawke. Now he was going to fail her. 

“Varric?” He hadn't even notice when Pentaghast had trailed back to join him. She stood before him, tapped her foot impatiently. 

“I can't… I can't do this,” he mumbled, fists balled in his lap. He just wanted a proper breath, deep and satisfying. He wanted the needling sense of dread to go away. 

Pentaghast crouched in front of him and he glanced up at her, at the frown marring her features. Though the moment she got a good look at him, her face softened and the change incredible. She went from a harsh mercenary… to something else entirely. Maker, she was beautiful. 

She reached out, laid a gentle hand on his knee. “Varric? Look at me. Everything is all right, everything will be all right. You are fine. You just need go a little further. There is a town, away from the main road, where we will find a phone and a vehicle. We will save Hawke.” 

Varric sucked in a deep breath slowly, held it, and then let it out. He nodded at her. “Okay.” 

“I promise, Varric. I promise you, we will take care of this.” 

He wasn't sure what startled him more, the fact her words actually helped to calm him or the fact that he actually believed her. Hesitantly he reached out, squeezed her hand. 

“Thank you… I uh, I have panic attacks.” 

Pentaghast smiled softly. “I gathered. It is okay. You will be okay.” 

She patted his hand with her free one and stood up slowly. “Can you continue? We should find some shelter for the night. I don't think the rain is going to let up anytime soon.” 

“Yeah. I'm-I'm good.” Varric took in another slow breath and rose. He nodded firmly. “Let's go.” 

He started walking the direction they'd been headed. Breaking through the brush and vines, he came out at the top of a hill, below them the forest stretched out until disappearing into misting rain in the distance. If he recalled the map of the area correctly, there was a river a few miles away. 

“We will have to find a way down,” Pentaghast said behind him. 

“Looks like it trails downward that way.” He pointed to the left. She nodded, and Varric started to lead the way. Luckily there was a lightly worn path along the edge of the hill, likely used by animals trying to get down to the river. 

As he picked his way along, there was a strange rushing noise he couldn't quite place. He turned around to ask Pentaghast if she had heard it, only to realize she'd disappeared. Panic flared again, and Varric looked around frantically for where she could have gone. He looked down at the ground, realized it was starting to give way under the heavy rain and their weight.

“Aw, shit,” he muttered just before the ground gave out from under his feet, and he went flying down the hill on a muddy slide of death.


End file.
